Poorly Born on the Top of the Mountain

"I was poorly born on the top of a mountain, cherished by the motherly love of the thunder ..." and please continue the correct lyrics... the song that I would love to hear because I imagine my father carried me in his arms as he sang that old, old song used to be sang by old folks and war heroes, or those ordinary people who live in the mountain, the natives who were not schooled but knew how to sing an old English song.

Thus, I begin my story, a child in the arms of his father, lullabying to that wonderful tune, and in the loving eyes of his mom, inside a dilapidated, nipa hut in the outskirts of an island known as Negros. Aren't those words lonely? Yes, and they are beautiful. They sooth my ears and comfort my soul. They bring back memories of my childhood that will never be alive again. But they can be relived. Yes, they can be relived in our memories and in our imagination.

Yesterday, we are young; today we are as young; tomorrow we will never be young again.

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